I used to be another one of those people who didn’t have children and judged the parenting styles of those who did.  I swore my child would eat what was placed in front of him or nothing at all.  I assumed that a child could eat anything if they were hungry enough. 

Cameron isn’t too picky and knows what he has to eat to get dessert.  For months now, Eli has been content to go without dessert rather than eat what is placed in front of him.  For awhile I tried to force him to eat but that was when he went through that refuse-to-swallow-and-drool-until-my-mom-loses-it phase.  I’m glad that is over and now I let him eat if he likes and if not, then not.  Richard and I were just sure he would go through life [under our roof] without enjoying the pleasure of dessert. 

But the other night the home teachers brought some treats Eli could not resist.  I put him back at the table and placed his dinner before him.  He seemed determined.  He took one bite, chewed with a pained expression, and swallowed.  The second bite put him over the edge and he started gagging.  I quickly realized that he was on the brink of vomiting and I begged him to swallow, which he did.  I promptly removed the plate from his eye-sight and gave him an alternate meal.

I caved, call me a wimp or a push-over but that is where I draw the line.  Richard and I looked at each other, feeling terrible about making our child eat something that was truly making him feel ill.  And it wasn’t for lack of hunger.  As soon as I set a bowl of applesauce and some sliced cheese in front of him he double fisted the cheese until it was gone and shoveled in the applesauce by the spoonful. 

It looks like I’ll be rethinking yet another parenting strategy I was sure I had figured out.

I tried during the final minutes of prelude music before the Sunday meeting began to get Miriam to fall asleep. She was so close that I ventured back to our bench.  She lay quietly in my arms, on the brink of snoozing right until the Sacrament started.  Then of course she burst into discontented tears.  Richard offered to take her out leaving me with the boys. 

The deacon brought the bread and I held it out for Eli.  He demanded to hold the tray, not a good idea.  I asked him twice, or more, to take a piece and he refused insisting on taking the tray.  I returned the tray to the deacon and fits of fury ensued.  I felt the eyes of all around burning into my forehead.  I tried to soothe him but it would not be accomplished.  Although I imagine they were looks of compassion rather than looks of judgement, I nonetheless was feeling terribly embarrassed so I stood up and removed ourselves from the chapel, leaving Cameron behind.

In the foyer Richard and I traded children.  He did his best to console Eli while I snuggled Miriam to sleep.  All the while I fretted about our five year old alone on a bench in the chapel wondering what had just happened to his family. 

Fortunately Miriam obliged quickly and I returned to the chapel the minute the doors were opened to me.  I need not have worried about our social little son, as I found him in the bench of the kind couple sitting in front of us. 

After Sundays like this, where church fails to be the spiritual experience we come seeking, I comfort myself with the idea of brushstrokes, and pray that they are making a beautiful moral painting for my children.

I can’t help but laugh at myself as I write those words.  It was marvelous, but not nearly as intimidating as my wild imaginations had supposed it to be.  In fact, I had planned on describing its splendor in great detail, but instead have only a few things to say. 

Yesterday as Richard recounted to me some of the guests he had seen on the guest list I remarked that I was surely the only guest who purchased her jewelry at Claire’s.  We had a good laugh, but laughed even harder when I went to put on one of my earings and it broke. 

I am disappointed to say that I find myself tempted to boast about the guests who attended, but since I find name-dropping to be terribly irksome I will avoid doing so.  In truth, the presence of well-known or especially wealthy individuals did not particularly contribute to my enjoyment of the evening.

Richard and I sat at a table with some managers and partners from his office and they were perfectly approachable, and amiable.  It is shameful that I didn’t assume they would be,  nevertheless I didn’t find myself the least bit uncomfortable or out of place in their company as I had expected I would. 

There was some discussion about which car we would take, the mini-van which I thought would give the valet great amusement with it’s crushed goldfish crackers and innumerable car seats. Or we could take Richard’s truck, which does have leather interior, but the rear window is broken and a kitchen towell is hanging in its place.  I suggested we borrow a car from our parents but Richard wouldn’t hear of it, and my vain concern was unfounded since we parked in the volunteer parking lot.

I found myself greatly missing my sister Lori yesterday afternoon.  She has always been available to assist me with my hair and make-up for such special occasions in my life.  But having moved away I was left to my own cosmetic merits, which are greatly lacking.

We were the last to leave last night, along with a couple of the board members on the organization’s committee.  Along with other spouses,  I sat and rested my feet while they took care of some final responsibilities. I finally took the opportunity to appreciate the night for what it really was.  It was a fundraiser for two organizations, one of which was especially close to my heart.  Some generous dentists started a program for underserved children, and the funds raised from the evening would go to a van that functioned as a portable dental office. 

So despite the abundance of cleavage present at the gala, there was with it a an abundance of generosity.  And if Richard will allow me, when the final amount is calculated I look forward to sharing it.

Since my big event is only two days away I ventured to the mall.  My grand hopes were the perfect dress, for less than $50.00.  But I would settle for some bling to wear with my back-up dress.

Cameron was at preschool so I just had Eli and Miriam.  I do not have a double stroller, and I will never take these two children to the mall again without one.  Have I mentioned that Eli is our tortoise child?  Our last trip to the mall was to see Santa, and it didn’t help Eli’s pace that he was turning every corner asking if this is where Santa lived, and where was he?

First stop: Dress Barn.  Waste of time.  But an entire store of dresses statistically seemed like my best option.  The two kind ladies old enough to be my grand-mother were so disappointed to see me walk out without so much as trying on a skirt-suit.

So I went for the other extreme: Forever 21.  The youngish girl assisting me showed me a few black dresses. 

“I’m looking for something a little bit longer…”

From behind the counter another 21 year old informed me that none of the black dresses in that store went below the knee.  I was starting to feel very uncomfortable.

Sales people make me very uncomfortable.  I am the type of person who would look at, try on, and even buy something when compelled to do so by a salesperson.  You know how they flatter you, pressure you, guilt you.  I just can’t handle it.  And when you go to the mall at 10:00 in the morning you get 100% of the attention of the employees.   In fact the only other people in the mall are the mall-walkers, with their pleasant smiles and bright white shoes. 

With no success, except the “bling” I bought from Claire’s I headed to the nearest department store to use the elevator.  I needed to leave the mall in approximately two minutes to be on time picking up Cameron from preschool but I thought I’d pass through the “special occasion” area just in case.  I had avoided the mall anchor stores because I was sure I wouldn’t find a dress for the money I was willing to spend. But because I wasn’t planning to, nor did I have the time to, I did.  I tried it on in a hurry, paid for the dress and frantically carried Eli back to the car, while pushing the stroller. 

I was thrilled.  As soon as I got home I tried it on again and realized two things.  Either I should have started dieting three months ago to fit into this dress, or I was going to need to return to the mall (with all three children this time) to exchange it. 

Sigh.

Five years ago when my oldest child was just a newborn I had an ultrasound that found “suspicious” spots on my liver and kidneys.  The radiologists recommended further diagnostic imaging to investigate.  A CT scan was scheduled but not for a few days.  For a few days I was sure I was dying.  All joking aside, I was very worried and so were family members who were aware of the problem.

The results of the CT scan showed small cysts on my kidneys and livers.  They were asymptomatic and not causing any problems with liver or kidney function but my doctor diagnosed me with polycystic liver and kidney disease.  He suggested I have yearly CT scans to moniter the cysts.

Well other health problems came and went, two more pregnancies and two more babies.  Five years went by and I all but forgot about my yearly CT scan.  A few weeks ago while doing some spring cleaning I came across my medical chart from my doctor’s office in Pocatello.  My doctor had given it to me when we moved to give to my next doctor for the sake of the detailed health history it contained.

I made an appointment with my current physician and she read over the radiologists report from my original CT scan five years ago.  It described small cysts on my liver and kidneys, etc.  My doctor suggested blood work and scheduled a CT scan for me to check the status of the cysts. 

I wasn’t worried about the CT scan.  I didn’t expect any bad news.  But I certainly didn’t expect to hear what the nurse said when she called after my doctor read over the radiologists new findings.

“You don’t have any cysts on your liver or kidneys.”
“I don’t have any?”
“Nope. Looks good.” 

I am not here to try and offer a scientific explanation for why the cysts that once existed no longer exist.  I am here to testify that all things are in the hands of the Lord.  That is why I am eternally grateful for faith.

Sometimes we don’t understand why bad things happen.  It is the universal question when someone is asked to endure a trial. 

Why?

But just as asking this question in times of difficulty rarely brings any answers or peace, I believe the same is true in times of blessing. 

Why this trial? Why this blessing?  Because our Father in Heaven loves us.  He has a divine plan for each of us that involves rough roads and smooth ones.  But we can be grateful for Him and His love because all these things are ultimately only for our good.

I know it is easy for me to write this when I am experiencing the ease of a smooth road.  But know this, that I believe these things when the road is rough as well.  And no one is exempt from rough roads.  Five years ago this same faith carried me through three very worrisome days.

Grow old along with me!
The best is yet to be,
The last of life, for which the first was made:
Our times are in His hand
Who saith “A whole I planned,
Youth shows but half; trust God: see all, nor be afraid!”

Then, welcome each rebuff
That turns earth’s smoothness rough,
Each sting that bids nor sit nor stand but go!
Be our joys three-parts pain!
Strive, and hold cheap the strain;
Learn, nor account the pang; dare, never grudge the throe!
 
Not once beat “Praise be Thine!
I see the whole design,
I, who saw power, see now love perfect too:
Perfect I call Thy plan:
Thanks that I was a man!
Maker, remake, complete,—I trust what Thou shalt do!”
– small part taken from Rabbi Ben Ezra by Robert Browning

Time. There is only so much of it. There is only so much of it in life. And there is only so much of it before the next “deadline” life demands. I find that at the end of the day I often have regrets about my time management. Some nights I don’t, and on these nights I fall asleep at peace with the days events and accomplishments. Then there are other nights, where I lay in bed disgusted with myself, greatly wishing I could have the day back to do differently.

The way I see it, there are two ways I regret my use of time.

One way is when I spend it doing something I expect will turn out well, but due to circumstances beyond my control it doesn’t. These time wasters are easier to let go of because I didn’t know it would be a waste of time going in to it. At the end of the day I might say to myself “I wish we hadn’t gone to the library today. Our class was cancelled and the boys were so naughty while we looked for books.” Oh well. What is done is done. I had no way of knowing it would turn out badly, so the regret is only fleeting.

But the other regrets are a little harder to cope with because they are longer lasting. Dealing with my own foolish choices is what really sours my soul. When I choose to spend my time doing something that, from the beginning, I know is useless and unproductive I feel a more frustrated regret. Those are the hours I desperately long for. Because I did know better. And I my desire to relive them is more deep because of my shame for how I idled them away.

Oh time.

I wish I felt a bit more like the Rolling Stones. I wish time was on my side. Yes I do.